Jon Reskind

Uncle Gaston and niece Volume Two

CHAPTER ONE

Madeleine Poirier knew very little about him except that he was an acquaintance of Rafael Girarde and in a governmental capacity, which automatically classified him as a person of some prominence. His name was Julian Forrest and he was a civilian Inspector of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police from Ottawa, undoubtedly in Montreal on official business. For all of his fifty-odd years, he was not unhandsome, and Madeleine was not offended when he approached her. He had brought it off rather smoothly the night before at the Salle de Venus-Apollon where she served as hotesse for M. Girarde, the club owner – and in some respects, her benefactor these past bitter months – carefully choosing an appropriate time when Rafael would not overhear.

She had appreciated that. Rafael Girarde had been good to her and she wanted in no way to offend him, but by the same token, business was business, and she had her own goals that neither Rafael nor her income as club hostess was going to make attainable. As matters stood, she still kept Tuesday and Friday nights generously open to her employer at her place, and she felt quite certain that he had no idea of her private and selective circle of gentlemen friends upon whom she graciously bestowed her voluptuous charms for a substantial fee at tightly scheduled, pre-arranged tete-a-tetes. She was no prostitute, per se, and resented being approached as one. Julian Forrest must have assumed this, she thought, as she taxied toward his hotel that warm September afternoon.

She smiled to herself, her lush red lips parting slightly to display a dazzling row of white, even teeth. Her deep dark eyes sparkled in anticipation and she squirmed gently down into the leather cushion feeling the tightness of her panties tauten against the already moistened crevice between her legs. Thank God, she enjoyed her work, she mused, and that, too, she owed to Rafael. He was a fine lover and had taught her much. She had reason to be grateful to him; he had taken her under his wing after Antoine, her husband, had been sent to prison, aided her financially, found her an apartment and helped her evade the powerful and lecherous hands of Gaston Larreau, her own husband's nefarious "uncle". Yes, indeed, she owed Rafael Girarde much… yet, she would hurt him, she knew, hurt him terribly before another year came to pass…

Well, enough of those thoughts, she decided firmly. The tall, handsome and greying Julian Forrest was a more pleasant contemplation. His still-athletic physique beneath the exquisitely tailored suit had intrigued her. His smile had suggested sincerity, perhaps, even honesty, while his pale-blue eyes had portrayed the delights of the mischievous libertine, but in essence it had been his suave approach and delicate proposal she had succumbed to… plus his wallet.

"I'm not a man who chooses feminine companionship haphazardly, my dear," he had said to her in his rich baritone voice, the well modulated French rolling off his tongue with a decided Parisian flavor. Then, strangely enough, in English he had added: "But you are breathtaking, ma chere."

"And you are married, Inspector," she replied, almost as a matter of form. "Besides, you're a personal friend of Rafael's."

"Isn't everyone?" he said, reverting back to French and laughing as he spoke. "Good God, at fifty a man should have twenty years of married life behind him and a son or two to prove it. And certainly every official in Canada knows and claims friendship with the Minister of Government, Rafael Girarde, eh?"

She had laughed lightly. "You put it all so nicely, Inspector Forrest. Tell me… do I look like one of those girls?"

"Heaven forbid! You've misunderstood my luncheon invitation," he had said, his square handsome face assuming an embarrassed, if, awed expression. "How can I ever apologize and make you understand…"

"Please don't, M'sieu'. It's not necessary."

"But I feel like a cad…"

She had laughed once more. "I like you the way you were… and shall we say about two-ish tomorrow…?"

"T-Two-ish…?" he repeated, his iniquitous rogue's eyes beginning to dance excitedly. "You overwhelm me, Ma'm'selle…"

"It's Madame, darling, and there is a fee attached," she had said quite matter-of-factly.

"Fee? Whatever it is, it's not enough. I'll double it," he had responded, licking at his thin lips salaciously.

"And Rafael mustn't know. It would hurt him deeply, cheri. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course, of course! The utmost decorum, darling. I understand," he'd said in his rich depth of voice. "Ah… what a marvel you are, my dear. I wonder if he realizes how fortunate he is to have such a mistress? But then… I'm sure he does. Have you met Madame Girarde and their adopted child, Igat? What a splendid little girl. Beautiful… beautiful child…"

She could remember little of his conversation following the mentioning of Igat. The name alone was like a paralyzing bolt of lightning jolting through her whenever it was spoken. Even now as she recalled his throaty voice rolling the name from his lips, a sensation of agonized longing spiraled through her. Her eyes moistened and she bit at her full, lower lip. Had she met their adopted child…? Dear God… her own baby! Her own Igat! Why else was she living but for the day when they would be together, away from all of this… her own sweet little darling, Igat…?

Damn… she had to get a hold on herself, and right away. Certainly, she couldn't walk into his suite in this mood or he'd quickly lose his double-fee ideas. Double fee… hmmmmm… four hundred dollars… not an untidy sum… and she intended to hold him to his promise. Four hundred… that would make her twenty-two hundred in the bank. Mother of God, it was coming so beautifully. The novenas in church were helping, she was certain. She must give him equal value for his money, and she was certain that would be no problem. If there was any problem at all, it was she, herself; it wasn't right that she should enjoy it as she did… Sometimes, she was not so certain but what the stigma of Rahab coursed through her veins… and maybe these walls of lust she was imprisoning herself within would be as vulnerable as those of Jericho when the trumpets sounded… She shuddered at her own aphoristic thoughts.

"You said Hotel Victoria, Ma'm'selle?" the cabbie questioned, raising his head and cocking an ear.

"Oui."

"Merci. My mind was elsewhere, I guess," he bantered in a form of apology.

Madeleine looked through the window at the busy streets. They were nearing Dominion Square. As always, the city intrigued her… had since the first day she set foot in it. How long ago…? Nearly five years… almost six since she'd left the small fishing village of her birth on the Peninsule De Gaspe with the American named Keel who was to take her to Boston. She had been sixteen, nearly seventeen, and he'd fathered her Igat in her ignorance, left her stranded in Riviere du Loup… Oh God, she didn't want to think anymore about that! She just had to get hold of herself. Inspector Forrest was not to be disappointed by some morbid mood she allowed to seize hold of her. Heaven knows, there were too many lonely, dismal hours of reminiscence already in her days and nights without stealing from more pleasurable moments.

What she really needed was a drink, a little something to stimulate… to rekindle her sensual appetite of such a short time before, and the gallant Inspector would take care of that, she felt sure. She must cultivate him to the fullest extent; he represented the ultimate in clientele and a bit of uncontrollable, egotistical bragging on his part to his associates could do much toward increasing her income and at a rapid, pleasing rate. Then, she would put it all behind her, this entire existence… completely obliterate it from her mind… just she and her little Igat together at last… mother and child… a nice apartment in some large city where no one would ever find them. Igat would start school and she would find a respectable job… maybe in a fashionable ladies shop… or even as a model… But first, she must accumulate the five thousand dollars she felt to be the necessary minimum figure they would have to have…

"Hotel Victoria, Ma'm'selle," the cabbie said, interrupting her thoughts. He swiveled around in his seat in order to gain a better view of his voluptuous, blonde-haired passenger. He offered her his best broken-toothed smile and looked at her gorgeous nylon-encased leegs and thighs beneath the short fashionable miniskirt. Lustfully, his avid little eyes ravaged her, the straining points of her firm, full breasts against the lowcut bodice of her dress causing his mouth to go cotton-dry. Bitch, he thought. She was a whore; he'd bet his Godamned life she was a whore and that her below-the-shoulder length blonde hair was bleached… he'd bet his damned life on it… "One fifty, Ma'm'selle," he said, smiling. She'd be expensive, all right… that she would… he could never afford her… the bitch…

Madeleine handed him two one-dollar bills and he sought change but she told him to keep it. He brushed his hand against her knee reaching over to twist the door handle and she shifted in the seat until he could see almost to her panties. Damn her, the bitch, she was a whore for certain!

"Merci, Ma'm'selle."

She stepped from his cab, hesitated momentarily, then entered the revolving door of the lobby while he watched the gentle, provocative sway to her full, rounded hips as she walked… watched until the concierge motioned him on irritably and he roared off with a squeal of rubber. Damn, how he wished that he was the customer she was visiting. He sighed heavily as he wheeled dangerously into the stream of traffic.

CHAPTER TWO

Shannon was but part of his name, not the first nor the last, but the middle, after his mother's people, and he chose it as his only identification when they released him from prison rather than to use an alias. Should he resort to the full Andrew Shannon Connelly there were those, he felt, who might remember him, although it was doubtful there in Canada. Generally, the sportsminded were hockey people, some football, but baseball had yet to come into its own, even with the new Montreal Expos; still, he wanted no ties nor to be reminded of that segment of his life if only by chance, and especially now with what he had in mind.

He'd been sixteen-years in the majors, a husky corn-fed farm boy of eighteen from upstate New York in the beginning, foregoing college in '47 to sign with St. Louis, and later with Boston, then Milwaukee. He'd been good, having two no-hitters to his credit with the Sox, and great things still expected of him even at thirty-four, but Maggi had ended all of that.

Maggi Delaney Connelly, his wife of thirteen years, mother of Paulie, their six-year old son, had been an ardent baseball lover, an excellent hostess, and a Godamned promiscuous woman. One afternoon in July, six-years past, Paulie, left alone had struck his head on the side of their swimming pool, tumbled into the water and drowned. He, Shannon, had been in Chicago and they'd wired him there. It was two days following the funeral that a friend advised him of seeing Maggi in a bar with a man at the time the accident occurred.

He'd said nothing to her, only pretended to return to the team. That night he'd found them together in his bed and attempted to kill them both with his bare hands. He might have succeeded, he remembered, had not Maggi managed to floor him from behind with a chair, knocking him unconscious and breaking his arm… his left arm… his pitching arm.

But the ironical part had come later when her lover, who had turned out to be a prominent, local political hack, had engineered an attempted murder charge against him and made it stick, netting him a year and a day in prison. When it was done, a bitter ex-baseball player named Andy Connelly was advised by a benevolent warden that he might do better in another part of the country… or even another country. Had he thought about that?

In fact, he'd thought about a lot of things, and that was but one of them. Divorced, broke and overflowing with hate, he had migrated north of the border, found employment in a small factory in Ontario, then, fumbled a stupid attempt to hijack its payroll.

So, once again here he was, five-years later, no less bitter, but seasoned, and happy to be breathing free air once more as he walked along a side street off St. Catherine in the warm September sunshine, enjoying the pleasurable sounds of Montreal's bustling activity. Twenty years had passed since his last visit to the fabulous city… since that exhibition game with Montreal's then International League team, and he was satisfied that its stellar attraction had not changed… the women were still beautiful… and God, how he needed one.

A half-dozen times he paused to ogle after a pair of pretty legs or a voluptuous figure wearing a piled-up, exotic coiffure… radical, ridiculous, but beautiful… slender ankles, rounded calves and curvaceous hips and buttocks… tripping off on high, needle-like heels in every damned direction. Christ, it was enough to set him wild; his love-starved cock jerked uncontrollably in his pants. He didn't intend that another day would go by without him knowing the satisfaction of a woman's warm, soft, receptive body. How he'd gone these last forty-eight hours since his release was almost more than he could fathom right at the moment, but then, with a little thought that wasn't too difficult to reason either.

There were other things besides the need for normal sexual satisfaction one became obsessed with when he was buried "inside"… and in this case it had been a plan to extort a half-million dollars. A thousand and one nights he had lain awake plotting, planning, learning all he could from his vindictive cellmate, Antoine Poirier, regarding the latter's infamous crime czar "uncle", Gaston Larreau; until he was certain he had devised a workable scheme. Nothing else seemed to matter all those long months and years except this fantastic coup that was going to even every score for him, even the medieval torture of being denied the biological need for a woman.

At first, when he'd walked onto the street and heard the big gate clang shut behind him the sensation of being a free man once more had nearly over-powered him. By God, he was going to kick things off with a few drinks, then, a woman, and he was going to fuck that doll, whoever she would be, until she couldn't walk, until he'd drained the last drop of stored-up semen from his aching, ravenous loins… but he hadn't done either. Instead, he'd gone directly to the CNR station, bought a ticket for Montreal and spent the day enroute, his brain cogitating in a never-ending pattern of hashing and rehashing, for it was the enormity of such a scheme and the aftermath should it fail that caused him to break out in periodic cold sweats.

The big gamble existed in the fact that he was playing at a game he knew nothing about, where the stakes, win or lose, were the ultimate… financially fixed for life, or very, very dead. The payroll escapade had been a foolhardy thing; the proof of that had been his tackling it single-handed and without a carefully prepared program. They'd caught him flat-footed. This time, he intended to minimize the gamble with methodical planning. There was no room for error, or else he would damn sure wind up in a basket; not that he feared death so much, but it was the uncontrollable ways one could achieve the state that bothered him.

Anyway, his carefully conceived plans called for a woman and one he could trust all the way. Tony Poirier had lauded the praises of his voluptuous young wife the entire length of time that they'd shared a cell, long enough and with sufficient enthusiasm to lead Shannon to believe that she might be just the accomplice he was looking for… if he could enlist her help. He'd told Tony nothing of his intentions, simply picked his brains until he was satisfied that he knew Madeleine Poirier as well as did the young husband, himself, even to every inch of the soft, white flesh of her delicious body… and this was why he hadn't wasted any time sating his immediate carnal desires. He'd managed to survive for five years and another day or so wasn't beyond his realm of endurance; besides, from the small picture that Tony kept of her on the wall above his bunk, plus the untold hours he had listened dry-mouthed with his prick anvil-hard and throbbing painfully while the Frenchman expounded on her sexual charms and abilities, he was convinced it was going to be worth the extra short abstinence.

Of course, there were still questions he had no way of knowing the answers to, yet; questions like: how much had she changed since Tony'd been sent to prison? Did she still love him? What was she doing; how was she getting along? Could she really be trusted… and was he going to have to rape her, or would she fuck willingly? Because he damned sure intended to have her, one way or the other.

He'd formed a few ideas of his own and based them on the fact that her letters to her husband had fallen off to one every two or three weeks, and dropped from six and seven pages to one… it all added up to one thing, little Madeleine had had it with her Tony. New things were in the wind for her, which might well play right into his hand. Besides, he still had his main ace-in-the-hole… her kid, and this was what he was counting on to swing things his way.

Shannon's mind churned busily as he hailed a cab, gave the address he had copied from one of her letters to Tony, and leaned back to contemplate his financial situation briefly. It wasn't what he could call sound; he had fifty-three dollars to his name and he was going to need a little bundle to set the wheels in motion. Someway, somewhere, somehow, he had to garner a sizeable stake, and for some reason he was convinced that Madeleine Poirier was also going to be his answer in this department.

The cabbie swung around the corner onto a narrow side street and slowed to study the housenumbers. Shannon noted the semi-shabbiness of the section with its near-ugly three and four storied red-brick buildings and their long ascending porch-steps. Momentarily, he speculated that Tony's little wife might not be making it too well and this didn't please him.

The Frenchman pointed out the right entrance and Shannon hopped out, paying but ignoring the tip.

"Merci, M'sieu'," the driver stressed sarcastically tossing his fare a disgusted side glance, as he pulled away from the curb with a squeal of rubber.

Shannon spat after him and cursed under his breath. Lousy frog. He climbed the steps irritably, hardly prepared to walk into the building superintendent. He had just entered the dingy, musty-smelling vestibule when the other appeared out of nowhere before him, a thin, narrow-shouldered, elderly Englishman with a fat little belly and a pinched face. His hair had long left him and his eyes bore a strange cloudiness about them that reminded Shannon of a junkie he had known a long time before in Syracuse. The little man looked at Shannon's six-feet from head to toe, appraising the close cropped, almost white hair, the hard blue eyes and straight lipped mouth in a manner that indicated he didn't like what he saw.

"Well?" he said with a near cockney accent.

"Madeleine Poirier? She live here?"

"Maybe. Who're you?"

"Which apartment?" asked Shannon, ignoring the question.

"She ain't in. Saw her leave a couple of hours ago," the little man told him snidely, working his milky-eyes up and down Shannon's face once more. "Who're you, anyway?"

"Her brother."

His pinched face twisted into a contemptuous grin. "Now I've got yuh, wise guy. You don't look like her; you don't look French either. So, let's try a better one, eh…"

Shannon lost patience. He caught him by his long necktie, winding it around his big hand until his fist was shutting off the breath in the other's windpipe. "Which apartment, Pop?" he hissed without moving his lips.

The Englishman attempted to swallow. It seemed difficult. "You… you better not try any rough stuff here, mister," he gasped, the haze temporarily clearing from his eyes. "This is a respectable house, see… No rough stuff… I… I don't know anything about her… I ain't sure she lives here… okay…?"

Shannon let go of him and stepped back. He sighed and brought bills from his pocket, peeling off one of the precious tens and extending it to him.

"W-Well… well," the little man stammered, simultaneously massaging his throat while his eyes darted from the money up to Shannon's face. "W-Why didn't you say you were her brother?" He made a more acceptable grin and grabbed at the money, shoving it deep into his shirt pocket. "Follow me… I'll let you in to wait for her, eh? She ought to be 'long any time. Been gone quite awhile now." He winked and spun around.

"Thanks," said Shannon drily, falling in behind him to climb the stairs.

"Yeah…" he repeated as he led the way to the third floor, "… should've told me that in the first place, mister…"

CHAPTER THREE

Madeleine doubted that she would ever get over her timorousness at a first appointment with a new patron. Perhaps in time, when, and if, one became seasoned, a certain callousing metamorphosis took place, but so far in her short career she'd noted no such mutation. In fact, at the moment, standing in the luxurious living-room of Julian Forrest's elegant suite before the appraising, lecherous eyes of the handsome Inspector, she sensed a tiny shiver begin at the calves of her legs to creep up over the satin-smooth flesh of her body and along her spine in an emotional blend of trepidation and sensual anticipation. The latter somatic reaction surprised her, but she couldn't seem to help herself; his imposing masculinity just seemed to set her off in a carnal manner she could never recall experiencing before.

"Ah, my pet, you're very punctual," he said, smiling and moving toward her with the suave charm and dash of a cavalier, "and even more lovely than I remember… if that's possible."

"You're too flattering, Inspector," she replied as he took her soft, long-fingered hand inside his large, strong one, while the other moved tantalizingly along the warm, smooth skin of her arm almost to her shoulder, his fingertips brushing beneath to tease at the velvety, erogenous flesh at the pit of her underarm. The erotic sensation took her completely by surprise and she made a little unintentional gasping sound.

Her reaction pleased as well as excited him and he drew her closer, slipping his arms around her slender waist. Madeleine looked up at him, her dark eyes unable to conceal her own arousal. He held her gently but firmly, until she felt her full, erect breasts flattening against his chest and then his hands were moving downward to encompass the round full orbs of her buttocks possessively.

"Let's dispense with the formalities, cherie," he whispered in English, his strong hands teasing and massaging the smoothness of her buttocks, ever drawing her closer into the solid strength of his loins.

Once more, his overwhelming charm completely captivated her, raising another little gasp in her throat. Ohhhh… for certain, she was going to enjoy this… He lowered his head slowly, completely engulfing her soft, wet mouth with his own lips, his tongue sliding between her lips and against her teeth, sending an ungovernable tremor rippling over her. He held her almost crushingly, his large hands hot and moving as they pressed into the spheres of her buttocks, forcing her pelvis tighter to him, his height placing the still unhardened bulge of his penis snug against the softness of her belly.

An unexplainable, little sense of injured pride at his lack of immediate penial response to the physical contact of her body caused Madeleine to begin a barely perceptible undulation of her belly and pelvis as she opened her mouth to the exploration of his tongue… and then he was slowly drawing her down onto the davenport, one massive hand moving to cup her full, round breast, squeezing and kneading it gently.

"Ohhh… ohhh," she moaned purposely, but not wholly with pretense. "Y-You're not a lover who believes in wasting time, cheri." She squirmed suggestively beneath his hands.

"There's hardly time to be wasted in this life, ma cherie," he half whispered, his hands investigating her soft, curvaceous body as he leaned above her and played with her face with his tongue.

A barely audible whimpering sound escaped her, and suddenly she was alive with sensation. His hands, his tongue, his whole body and actions were setting her aflame with lewd, lascivious desire. God, she couldn't remember ever feeling more wanton… or a more urgent need for sexual fulfillment…

"Do you like to fuck?" he asked her, his face scant inches above her own, and his sincere, sensual use of the lewd word causing immediate prurient sensations to come alive and ripple through her excitedly.

"Oui… oui, I do cher," she answered quickly, without the slightest trace of pretense, "When I have such a lover as you."

He chuckled warmly. "You are a clever little girl, ma chere. You know the many ways to excite a man… but I fear you have yet to know Julian Forrest." He continued to smile down into her face. He kissed the tip of her nose and his great hand went on caressing her breast through her clothing.

Madeleine squirmed beneath his gentle, but stimulating touch. She was not ashamed at her obviously growing desire; instead, she was pleased and satisfied that she would have to put on no airs for this man whom she wanted physically… sexually, as was so often the situation in this new-found profession she had temporarily chosen. But, she wasn't about to wait much longer… She slipped her arms up and around his neck, drawing him down to her kiss, forcing her tiny pink tongue into his mouth as she writhed against him.

Finally, she said: "Make love to me, cheri."

"How?" he whispered hotly into her mouth.

"However you choose?"

"You… you say that so flippantly," he hissed down at her.

"B-Because that's the way I feel," said Madeleine, trailing her hand down over his chest toward his loins… moving over his flat, hard stomach to the front of his trousers, her long, sensuous fingers seeking and exploring with gentle tenseness… at last to discover his still flaccid member lying docile inside the protection of his clothing.

Her brow knitted and she stared up at him. He dropped his eyes and looked away; finally, he turned from her and sat upright on the edge of the chesterfield, his back to her.